


Impasto: A Base of Black

by Minxie



Series: Impasto [1]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Impasto 'verse, M/M, Post-Series, QAF (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I can't decide if I want to drink, smoke, or fuck these feelings away. I'm pretty sure it isn't fuck. That alone is way too telling to even contemplate. </i></p><p>First in my Impasto 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impasto: A Base of Black

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to _alicesprings for the beta read!

_**Impasto:** The application of thick layers of color so the texture stands out in relief._

***

 

Justin is gone. Quietly slipping away after the most intense sex we've… hell, I've ever had. If he'd waited until I woke up, recovered from fucking pouring every emotion I've ever experienced into that orgasm, I'd have told him to stay. Or volunteered to go with him.

Not that either is really an option. Justin has outgrown the Pitts and Kinnetik isn't ready for Madison Avenue.

I can't decide if I want to drink, smoke, or fuck these feelings away. I'm pretty sure it isn't fuck. That alone is way too telling to even contemplate.

"He needed to go to New York." The words sound as hollow as I feel. "Pushing him was the right thing to do. So, fucking, stop being a lesbian about it and..."

And, what? Go to Babylon? Can't. It's still a pile of charred and twisted metal.

Woody's? Hell, no. That requires conversation and, frankly, my biting wit seems to be missing. No reason to worry the masses with a less than perfect Brian Kinney experience.

The house? Possibly. But not for another few days. I'm not ready to shut the door on his fucking studio yet. And, if I'm going to be there, that door will be closed tighter than any fag's closet has ever been.

All possibilities mined, I guess it's drinking and smoking. Here in the loft. Alone.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Brian-fucking-Kinney, indeed.

* * *

How I ended up in the burnt and twisted shell of Babylon, dancing with Michael is beyond me. Especially seeing as there is not a damn whisper of music to be heard. I'm really not high enough for wherever the fuck Mikey is going with this.

Between one move and the next, he finally spits it out. He thinks that Babylon should be reopened. By me. Fucking ridiculous.

Then, in a moment of clarity, I hear the truth behind the shitload of sentimental crap. It's even more pathetic than the drivel he's already tossed out.

He's worried about me with Justin gone.

Fuck of it is… so am I.

* * *

"Call the contractors, Theodore. We're reopening Babylon." Not exactly how I planned to start the work week. I'd spent the night thinking about it, playing what Mikey said over in my mind. Last check, I was still against the idea.

"Babylon?"

"Home of my misspent youth. Best backroom in Pittsburgh." Obviously the sentimental crap Michael spewed last night has infected me. Nothing like a best friend to catch you while you're down and really warp your brain. "Needs to be up and running as soon as possible. There are legions of nice, young gay boys to corrupt."

Ted smiles and nods. "You got it."

I'd feel better about this if Ted's smile hadn't been the kind you give your crazy old aunt. Doesn't matter, though. It's already out there; and, now that I've said it out loud, the idea is starting to grow on me. Might as well throw myself into the project and recreate Babylon into the perfect mix of past and present.

Besides, I need a place for a quick and easy fuck.

* * *

"Wow." Michael slowly spins in a circle, eyes taking in the subtle changes.

Relief wars with a smug sense of pride. I want Michael to like it. The project took on more importance than I anticipated. Especially considering that I'd intended to sell out, leave Babylon and everything attached to it – Justin, the bombing, the backroom – in the past. Seeing as it was Michael who pushed me to rebuild, his approval is important, almost necessary.

"Is that..."

"Yeah." I should have known he'd hone in on that spot right away. Of them all, Mikey would know where the flash point for the bomb was. He'd been close enough to it.

"I like it."

I can see in his eyes that he really does.

"So this Friday, huh?"

I nod. "Yeah. Practice run on Friday for invited guests only. Then open to the public on Saturday."

"Inviting Justin?"

The question, two simple fucking words, makes me stumble. How sad. Just like I still don't fuck blue-eyed blonds with pretty smiles. Or blonds period, pretty or not. For that matter, I don't fuck very much at all. Babylon's backroom better rectify that situation.

Shaking free of that brilliant thought, I mutter, "He doesn't exactly live in the neighborhood anymore."

I hear Michael coming closer, feel him right before he puts a hand on my shoulder. Fucking lovely.

"When's the last time you two saw each other?"

Justin's been gone for damn near three months. I've been rebuilding Babylon and chasing clients – big clients, Madison Avenue type clients – so when the fuck does Michael think I've had time to see Justin. And better yet, why would I? He'd still be living in New York and I'd be here in the Pitts.

"The night he left." No reason to add that I haven't spoken to him either. Not outside the first few days, when we both made an effort to call, before reality finally hit that this move, unlike his detour in LA, was for the long haul. I've dialed his cell but I hang up before the first ring even sounds, most of the time before even pushing send.

It isn't like Justin has been burning up the phone lines either. I don't know how I feel about that. Hopefully it means he's busy with his art. Most likely, it means he's sucking and fucking his way into the New York scene.

"Brian, I thought you guys had a plan."

The huff of laughter escapes before I can stop it. He has clearly forgotten who I am. "No plan."

"No plan?"

I refuse to turn around. No reason to see the pity in his eyes when I can hear it plain enough in his voice. "It's only time, Mikey. Only time."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

I left while he was sleeping. I wanted to wake him up, kiss him one more time, beg to stay there and forget all about that damn article in ArtForum. But that would have only made things worse so I didn't. I just walked away, that damned black duffel slung over my shoulder. Just like fucking always.

Arriving in New York should have been exciting, a thrill... a chance of a lifetime. It wasn't.

It isn't.

It's tedious and exhausting and, as stupid as it sounds, boring.

Not to mention living here is fucking expensive. My studio is smaller than the one in Pittsburgh, in a building three-times as dirty, and costs twice as much. Somehow I don't think this is what Brian had in mind when we talked about moving.

It sure as hell isn't what I pictured.

Three months later, and I'm still wishing like shit I'd told him to go fuck himself and stayed where I was. Between juggling two jobs and trying to paint, half the time I don't even know which way is up. My painting is losing that certain something, the edge that came from each stroke reflecting the drama of my life. Instead of reflecting, now it's suffering. From sheer, absolute don't-give-a-fuck.

Because that's where I am. I don't give a fuck.

Maybe it's time for a phone call, or a weekend visit, or a goddamn moving van. Time to go home and kick Brian's ass, make a decision about what the hell we're doing. At least come up with a plan that works for both of us, one that doesn't include me living in New York.

An annoying pounding on the door stops my daydreaming. Swinging the door open, I blink. FedEx? What the hell?

"Yeah?"

"Package for Justin Taylor." He waves the cardboard envelope back and forth.

"That's me. Do I need to sign..."

I guess not. As soon as the package is in my hands, the delivery boy is turning and heading down the stairs.

The return address is one Michael Novotny. I shake it, hear paper slide and hit the edges. Must be Rage business. Another proposal needing a signature.

I'm tempted to toss it aside. I don't have enough free time to think right now, much less worry about an underground comic. But I also don't have money right now, and if nothing else, Rage pays.

Ripping the envelope open is hard. Not physically, but mentally, because I don't know if I really want to deal with any of this: with Rage, with Pittsburgh, with Michael instead of Brian.

There is nothing but shock when a postcard-sized flyer for Babylon falls into my hand.

What the fuck?

A bright green slash of letters catches my eye. _Reopening!_

Brian rebuilt Babylon. And the chicken shit had Michael tell me. What an ass.

A sheet of computer paper falls out and flutters to the ground. Maybe, hopefully it has an explanation of some sort. Picking it up, I see nothing but plane schedules for this weekend. And a two word demand from Michael – _Make it!_

So maybe not an explanation after all.

* * *

Liberty Avenue hasn't changed a bit. People are friendly and smiling and it fucking pisses me off. I've changed. My art has changed. So why the fuck didn't this all change too? If it had, going back to New York wouldn't be near as hard.

But, it hasn't changed. At all. And leaving here Sunday night is going to be a bitch.

I hear the music long before I see the doors. I can't stop the way I start moving, body rolling to the rhythm, anymore than I can _not_ start looking for Brian, even though I know full well he won't be standing outside.

The line moves quickly and soon enough I'm handing over the invitation and being motioned up the stairs. The inside is thumping, the music and crush of dancers making the air heavy, almost a living thing of its own. I scan the crowd and smile when I find Brian, dancing alone on a riser.

He looks... too thin, tired, run the fuck down. What the hell has he been doing?

I'm not sure I want the answer to that question.

But then, as he smiles and joins the crowd on the floor, surrounds himself with familiar faces, I think I might understand. He's doing the same thing I am: just trying to make it. He's throwing himself into whatever he can find and pushing forward. The surety of that feeling, of that knowledge is scary. I know him too well, and that leads to me wondering if I should be here at all.

Because, really, if Brian Kinney had wanted me here, he'd have invited me his damn self.

Then he turns, his eyes finding me through the crowd and all the doubts fade away.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

I know the instant Brian sees Justin. I was beginning to think Justin wasn't going to show and then... _bam!_... Brian's eyes darken, seduction, the need to seduce starts coming off of him in waves. No one else has ever ranked Brian's immediate single-minded focus the way Justin does. That should have told me something the first night we met the kid.

"What..."

"I sent him an invitation."

Brian turns and looks at me. "Why?"

I smile softly, knowing that he'll be bringing up my issues of sentimentality for weeks to come. "He's my business partner, he was here the night the bomb went off, he loves you. Pick one."

"Mikey…" But he stops there, shaking his head. Finally a small grin curls around his lips and he whispers, "Thanks."

I nod, silently acknowledging Brian without adding to either of our discomfort. "Go on then."

He's already staring at Justin again. I doubt he even heard me. But that's okay, seeing as they are walking towards each other, set to collide on the dance floor.

"Well," Emmett says, knocking into me and splashing us both with his Cosmo. "I guess that makes tonight picture perfect."

A laugh bubbles out. "You're right. Come on, Em," and I drag him, sticky drink and all, with me and Ben to the dance floor. "Let's dance."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Been a while." And isn't that just about the most idiotic thing I could possibly say. Trumped only by, "You reopened Babylon."

"So it seems." Brian reaches out, his hands sliding around my waist, and he pulls me in, moving us against each other like we'd never been apart. "What're you doin' here?"

The fact that he is pressing a kiss against my ear while he asks takes the sting out of the words.

I shrug. With my arms looped around his neck, I'm sure at least half of the motion is lost to the bump of the dance. "Got an invitation."

And then there is no more talking. We're too busy grinding against each other, kissing and touching and getting as close to fucking as we can with so many clothes between us. We're too busy relearning everything we might have forgotten over the past three months to worry about shit like talking.

I'd feel like an uncultured school boy if it wasn't for the fact that, when our hips roll together, Brian is just as hard, just as ready as I am.

"How long are you here?"

I drag my tongue over his jaw, biting gently before answering. "Sunday night. Forty-eight hours."

"Fuck," Brian hisses. "And I bet you have to see Jennifer."

I nod with a wry smile, not mentioning the brief reunion I had with my mother at the airport. "She paid for the ticket. So, yeah, I should probably go spend some time with her."

After a few more kisses, a few more gropes, my will power starts to break. I want Brian in me. Now.

"How long do you have to stay tonight?" I may want Brian to fuck me, but there is no way it's happening for the first time in months in Babylon's backroom. Not when the loft is ready and waiting with a real bed and that fucking shower and, surely, plenty of condoms and lube.

Brian blinks, looking like he's actually thinking about his answer. "One drink with Michael."

I can handle that. I can leave Brian fully dressed and somewhat unmolested for one drink. As long as we find Michael right fucking now. Brian laughs and I realize I said that out loud. Oops.

He keeps an arm around me, his fingers digging deep into my hip, while motioning the guys to the bar with his free hand.

Fuck. I hope this doesn't take too long.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

All of our friends have clustered around us, asking Justin about New York and his art. Even as they reach out to hug him, I can't make myself release my grip on him. I'm sure that says something. That, come Sunday, when Justin goes back to New York, I'll be mortified to have discovered yet another flaw in my emotional lassitude.

"Well, boys," I drawl, pulling Justin tighter to my side. "It's time for me to leave Babylon in your capable hands."

"You're not staying?"

I don't have time to say anything to Michael – something that I'm sure would have been cutting and properly sarcastic – before Emmett cracks up. "You actually thought bringing Justin to town _wouldn't_ lead to copious amounts of reunion sex?"

Michael blushes. "I thought… but what about Babylon? This is your grand reopening; I'd have thought you'd want to be here tonight."

"Miscalculation on your part, Mikey." And I turn, leading Justin back through the dancers and out the door.

We make it to the car – barely – before I slam Justin against the alley wall. I lean in and take his mouth, pushing my tongue past his lips, mapping his teeth while I drink in the taste of him. "Christ."

"Yeah."

He's leaning into me, head tilted at the perfect angle, just begging for more.

"Loft," I manage between gasping for breath and fucking his mouth with my tongue. "We'll go out to the house tomorrow."

* * *

I start stripping Justin the minute the door shuts behind us. I only waited this long because I knew there was no way in hell I'd stop once I started. And I was right.

His shirt is lost at the door, his pants at the base of the column I used to love to fuck him against, and his underwear is somewhere over my shoulder.

It's a road that leads to Justin, spread and naked on my sheets, in my bed. Where he fucking belongs.

"God." I stand back and look as I pop the button on my jeans, pushing them down to a heap at my feet, my eyes never leaving him.

Justin wraps his hand around his cock and strokes. Slowly. "Brian. I want you in me."

Fuck. I damn near rip the buttons off my shirt in my haste. Doesn't matter. It's replaceable.

"Brian. Now."

His voice is raspy, heavy with need and arousal, and it goes straight to my cock.

"Yeah. Now sounds good."

Then time speeds up and it becomes the complete antithesis of the last time we were together.

It's a constant stream of sloppy kisses and hurried prep, lube spilling over the sheets when I fumble – _fumble_ – the goddamn bottle. It's laughing and wrestling until our legs are caught in a tangle of sheets. It's frantic and messy and, when Justin rolls the condom over my cock, it's absolutely fucking perfect.

Justin arches up to me. The slick skin of his back slides against my chest and, _fuck_, suddenly I can't be in him soon enough. "Justin…"

It's meant to be a warning. Meant to say we're going too fast, we need to slow down. Supposed to be the grounding sound of sense in an out-of-control situation.

Instead it's a plea. It's me begging him to be ready, to be able to take it, to take me. Begging because it's been too long to go slow now.

And I'm not just talking about sex. I want him to want me, keep me. All of me.

"I've got you, Brian." And he looks over his shoulder. "So, fuck me, have me."

Like always, he knows exactly what I'm feeling, what I'm trying to say. Probably before I even attempted to say it. Then he rocks back, drags his ass over the length of my cock, and all thought skitters away.

I try to go slow, try to ease into him. Try to not add to the hurts between us – even one that promises to end with pleasure, with reconnection.

"Goddammit, Brian," he growls. "I told you to fuck me."

Then the little bastard pushes back, takes me in balls deep with one long, steady move. He pants and hisses, an underlying pain beneath the arousal. He rocks forward and back, once and then twice, and then he stills, settles with us joined skin-to-skin, ass-to-cock.

"Fuck. Me. Now."

Justin's ass clenches, tightens and releases around my cock and the spell, the need to go slow is shattered.

Thank fucking God.

I tighten my hold on his hips, pull back just as slowly as I'd tried easing into him, and then, stopping before my cock slips free, I whisper, "Remember you asked for this. Demanded it, even."

Let the dance begin.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

My ass aches. Like 'three fucks since coming home last night' aches. I've never felt better. Not even after the first time, when Brian took my virginity. I hadn't known then what it was like to do without.

Now I know all too well the feeling of missing Brian Kinney… and his cock. Not that I'll be experiencing that today.

"Come on, Sunshine." He pops my ass with the towel. "Mother Taylor is expecting us."

"You sure you want to go?" I ask not because I don't want him there but to give him the option. In case he had weekend plans that my unexpected arrival completely fucked up. Not that I'd feel bad about fucking up a trick or two.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

Fuck. That is so not what I wanted him to think.

"I meant, since I was a surprise, if you had other… Yes, I'd like you there."

His lips twitch into an almost smile, the one he uses when he is suppressing happiness and satisfaction. Time to change the subject before I say fuck it to seeing mom and drag Brian back to bed – or into the shower – again.

"We still going out to the house today?" Not exactly what I'd planned to ask, but what the hell.

He nods. "Cleaning service is out there now. We'll just need to stop on the way for food." He comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my chest and shoulders, and we stare at each other in the mirror. "And we're staying there until I have to take you to the airport."

I wonder if now is the time to mention the desire to cancel my flight.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Despite the bruising under his eyes, Justin looks one hundred percent better today than he did at the airport last night. He's tired but the desolate, depressing air is gone.

It's obvious I, yet once again, have Brian to thank for the change in my son.

They haven't stopped touching each other since arriving – a hand on a thigh, an arm around the shoulders, a kiss across the cheek. I finally see why Justin was willing to forgo a New York art career.

They honestly love each other.

It isn't the unbalanced love affair I'd always feared. Brian needs Justin just as much as Justin needs him. He just isn't as vocal as my son is about it.

It explains so much that I'd never really understood about them. I can't help but wonder how I missed it all those times before.

It's just as obvious that they need to talk.

I know the light in Justin's eyes is about to dim because the topic I'm going to bring up is one that they are avoiding. But someone has to bring it up and, unfortunately, that task falls to me. I suddenly wish that I'd invited Debbie to lunch after all.

"So, Justin, tell me about New York."

I almost wince at how still they both become. Almost but not. Because Brian doesn't let Justin go, he just pulls him in tighter, and Justin, my beautiful boy, curls into the contact.

"Well, it's nothing like Pittsburgh."

Hopefully the two-hour window they gave me will be enough time to get most of it out in the open. And then they can talk about it tonight. Assuming they manage to keep their hands off one another long enough for an actual conversation.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

I could have happily killed my mother for bringing up New York. I doubt she would have wanted to hear the truth. She just wants my dreams to come true. For me to succeed as an artist. For me to be happy and healthy. And I want all of that too.

Only I want it with Brian at my side.

Brian drops down and bounces on the bed, "Want to tell me why you lied to your mom?"

And yet another reason to have happily killed my mother today. I had plans of getting laid tonight, multiple times if I'm being really honest. Sure as hell wasn't looking to have one of our usual round-a-bout, go in circles discussions.

"Who says I did?"

He does that arched eyebrow thing. Asshole.

"Look, it's just not living up to expectations, okay?" I roll into him, angling my head for a kiss. He always gives into that temptation.

Brian leans down and kisses me, a tease of lips and just a hint of tongue.

Then he draws back and starts talking. Again I say, asshole.

"Maybe you just need time to get there?"

I sigh and settle in alongside him with my head on his chest, a hand tracing lazy circles over his skin. I still have hopes for distraction. "If it doesn't get there soon, it won't matter."

He says nothing. Just pokes me in my side and waits.

"I don't want to talk about this, Brian." I twist off of him, try to push away from him. Fuck distraction and fuck Brian Kinney. "Can this not wait until I get back to the big city?"

Brian lets me go, raises both hands in surrender. He scoots to the other side of the bed and pushes to a stand. "Depends. You actually going to call this time?"

"Nothing stopped you from calling, you know?" The words, so goddamn telling, spill out before I can stop them.

Brian cants his head, his tongue flicking out over his bottom. "Score one for Sunshine. But, right now, we're talking about your transgressions."

I turn and look at him, hide nothing for showing. I know he sees it all – the anger, the frustration, the fucking desire to come back home – when his eyes widen and he makes a move towards me. "Please, Brian. Not now, not tonight."

"Fair enough." Brian flops back onto the bed and crooks his finger, "Come 'ere. We're done wasting our weekend."

And just like that I win the round and the conversation is tabled.

* * *

I'm at the top of the stairs, still half asleep and looking for Brian, when I hear his muted voice echoing off the hardwood floors.

_No, Jennifer, I didn't force him to talk to me last night. That's more your style than mine._

Good fucking hell. He's talking to my mother. Let's hope there is a minimum of salvation to be had and it's on the phone instead of in person. I take the stairs two at a time, rushing down before Brian can say too much to offend my mother.

"Morning," I mutter, relieved to find our home is still a mom-free zone. "Tell her I said hi."

"I need to go. Justin's up and, as you know, it's his last day here." Brian rolls his eyes and nods his head, even though my mom can't see him. "Yes, Jennifer. I'll tell him."

He snaps his phone shut and immediately stalks me, backing me against the counter. "Mummy says she wuvs you."

A snort of laughter bubbles out. "Thanks."

He presses a kiss against my cheek. "Now, what are we doing today?"

I know what has my vote. What would usually have Brian's vote. Unless, of course, he plans on another fucked-up conversation or two. "I say coffee and then back to bed."

"Now, now, Justin." Brian smirks and I prepare for something that only Brian could come up with. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Huh?" Eloquent, Taylor. Really. Shit like this needs to wait until after I've had coffee.

He laughs, a soft huff of a chuckle. "Nice. Every time I feel the confidence in your intelligence growing, you just open your mouth."

I smack his ass in retaliation. "Ass."

"Why, yes, Mr. Taylor." His hand cups my cock and, tongue in cheek, he says, "And this is a cock. The two – ass and cock – fit together rather well."

"Planning a demonstration?"

"And the sidekick finally wakes up." He grabs his coffee and, pressing a hand at my back, says, "Come on. I want you to see the house first."

I take another sip of coffee, following behind him, watching his ass with every step. "Something change here since the last time?"

He glances over his shoulder, eyes dancing with something between worry and pride. "You could say that."

And then we're standing in front of a door that I don't recognize. "Brian?"

He steps behind me, leans against the wall, and wraps both hands around his mug. "Open it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The door creaks open slowly. I can see the tension he's carrying in his shoulders. I know I'm worrying him a little. But I didn't know what else to do.

I meant what I said to Jennifer. I won't force him to talk. But it was pretty plain to see even without the words last night.

Justin is unhappy in New York. He's tired and lonely and would rather be in the Pitts.

And I just happen have an option for him.

"Brian?" Justin takes one step forward and then two back, ending right in front of me. "Is that a studio?"

"That's what the contractor promised, so it damn well better be."

I don't tell him that I had Lindz help with the design and the furnishings. That she went with me to the art stores and the computer places, stocking the shelves and drawers with every necessary thing – pencils, brushes, paints, software. I definitely don't tell him that I talked about it with her before I even brought Justin to see the house.

He turns away from me again, and goes into the studio, _his_ studio. He touches everything, hands dragging over walls and tables. Over the computer and the shelves of supplies. Over the windows opening over our backyard, filling with afternoon light.

He looks back, feet firmly planted in _his_ domain. "When?"

I shrug, roll my shoulders and hope that he lets my next statement go at face value. "It was one of the requirements when I went house hunting."

He blinks, opens his mouth and then, blinking again, snaps it shut. He actually steps back, moves further away from me, before saying, "Why didn't you say something?"

And now he's pissed. Fucking great.

"In all of that bullshit over the ArtForum article, why didn't you happen to mention the fact that our home, our fucking home, Brian, had a goddamned studio?"

I drop my eyes to the floor. This is not working out like I had planned. "Because you would have stayed."

"You're damn right, I would have stayed."

The crash of his coffee cup against the wall has me jerking my head up fast. Justin tearing shit up means I've crossed a line, stepped on my dick but good.

"You didn't want me to stay?" The words are whispered and, after the shouting and shattering crockery, they are all the more ominous for it.

Christ. I should have just taken him back upstairs and fucked him.

I stall as long as I can, formulating my response carefully in hopes of ending this discussion before it goes even more out of control.

"I wanted you to stay." I ignore the snort that comment garners. "But, ten years, twenty years from now, I wanted you to be happy. Not resentful over an opportunity missed."

"Instead you have me pissed and hurt and _resentful_ over a choice taken away."

Neither of us says anything. We stare at each other, at the coffee staining the wall, at the blank canvases and too clean studio floor.

It's Justin who breaks the silence. "Why now? Why show me now?"

"To give you options."

And then I walk away, leave Justin standing in the middle of his studio, and retreat. Time to run and hide before I can say or do anything else so goddamned revealing.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The first place I look is the garage. The car is still here so my search field is narrowed drastically. It's been over two hours since Brian left me in the studio.

Two hours of thinking and brooding and working through my pissiness with a pencil and a piece of paper. Now my hand aches, of course. And I feel like an idiot. But the sketches I have are sweet.

I'm still mad that he didn't tell me. But I do understand. Somewhat. A bit. Maybe.

And he's still an ass. Not that that is newsworthy.

I check our bedroom. Then the room Brian commandeered for his toys: television, game system, stereo, and treadmill. I even loop through the fucking kitchen. He's not in the house, unless, like the studio, there is another room that I had… have no clue about.

After this morning's events, it's a possibility to consider. A fucked up, absolutely crazy but very real possibility.

I head outside, leaving the idea of another secret room for another day. The pool, the courts, everywhere I go is empty. That leaves the stable and the fucking grounds. He better be in the stables.

He is. Stretched out on his back, in the middle of a stall, a thin blanket between him and the ground.

"Hey."

Brian keeps his eyes focused on the beams running the width of the ceiling. "Hi."

I ease down beside him, molding myself to his side, and sigh. "Fucked up morning."

"Yes, it was."

"Thank you." No matter how the revelation came, the fact that he built me a studio, filled it with every imaginable artistic desire, has earned him a thank you of memorable proportions. "Thank you for the studio. Remind me to thank Lindsay for helping."

He looks at me then. Cants his head and cuts his eyes until he is actually looking at me, instead of around me. "Lindz?"

I chuckle softly. "I know you, Brian. There's no way you know what half that stuff in there is for. You had to've had help."

He licks his lips and smirks. "Busted. It was Lindz."

"Of course it was." I lean up enough to press a kiss against his jaw. "Now, are we staying out here, or you finally going to get around to fucking me through the mattress."

He rolls to his feet and offers me a hand up. Together we head back to the house, to our home.

With him a few steps behind me, he asks, "You staying in the Pitts or heading back for city life?"

I'm glad he can't see my face. I can't lie for shit. "Haven't decided yet. Still weighing my options."

"Keeping your options open is smart. You should always have a back-up plan."

He's figured it out. Whether it was my tone that gave it away or that he knows me just that well, knows that after the studio, after finding out I'd been manipulated and kept in the dark, there really is only one choice to be made, I don't know.

I don't really care.

"Plans are good," I reply, sarcastic and with a small grin curling my lips. "We could have probably used a plan three months ago."

He grunts and I hold my breath. His next comment will decide where we go from here. "Could probably use a plan this time."

My grin turns into a fully formed smile. He's not so dense after all.

* * *

It's the same scene, just a different setting. Instead of the loft or Babylon, it's the Pittsburgh International Airport.

And I'm walking away from Brian.

Same sorry duffel filled with my clothes, same feelings of turmoil rolling in my gut.

I glance over my shoulder and then, with one final wave to Brian, I push through the terminal doors, hoping that this time we manage to get it right.

 

_...end..._


End file.
